


Your Daddy's a Pistol

by ForeverFalling86



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Angst, B+ parenting he's trying his best, Child Abandonment, Child Spies, Child!Clint Barton, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Character, Every chapter showcases another instance that Nick Fury's life is a Shit Show, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Nick Fury raises Clint, Past Child Abuse, Protective Nick Fury, Slice of Life, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28422042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverFalling86/pseuds/ForeverFalling86
Summary: No one ever said raising a child was easy, but things tend to get a little more complicated when you're the Director of a clandestine government organisation and spies, guns, and aliens are thrown into the mix.Or, Nick Fury raises Clint Barton and it goes about as well as you'd think.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Nick Fury
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	1. Age: 1 month

**Author's Note:**

> I've been slowly plugging away at this since like....2013? Which is just, very sad. The original intent was for this story to follow canon all the way through, but that was a LOT easier in 2013. If I'd continue to walk down that road, it'd be an overwhelming task I know I'd never actually see through to the end. Thus, this has switched to a more slice of life/vignettes format. Glimpses into this universe throughout the canon. I'm currently trying to like, I dunno, move passed my extreme Burn Out and find joy in the things I used to love doing. So here we go!

Growing up, like all kids Nick had a very specific idea of how his future would pan out. He’d go to college, meet the girl of his dreams, settle down, and have a family. And maybe joining the military fresh out of college hadn’t originally been in the cards, but in the end he'd still met the girl he’d thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Her name had been Sharon and she’d looked better in fatigues than anyone had any right to and he’d turned to his buddy on the first day of basic and told him flat out: “I’m going to marry that woman.”

They did two tours together before deciding to remain Stateside. The wedding was in June under a willow tree in the backyard of her grandparents’ estate. His buddy was Best Man, so with a flute of champagne in hand, Phil Coulson told everyone of that first day in basic when Nick had turned him and everyone cooed over it like a good wedding guest did.

And they’d been happy.

But then again, most newlyweds were, before the dust settled.

If he were to describe that stage of his life he would’ve said disenchanting. No one ever planned to get divorced. No ten year old dreams of one day getting married to a beautiful woman and then hiring a wonderful lawyer to make sure everything was divided up evenly four years later. It just didn’t happen. Or, if it did, that kid was fucking whack.

She’d wanted children.

Both their parents wanted grandchildren. Their brothers and sisters wanted nieces and nephews. Their friends had been vying for who would be godmother and godfather (Phil had staked his claim and despite his laid back exterior, most were a little too scared to argue). Apparently, one day while he had been off at work, everyone had apparently decided that children were in his near future. It wasn’t that he didn’t like children, per se. Or even that he didn’t want them. But life was all about timing.

So when he’d come home one day to find the papers on the table, no one was surprised, least of all him. The divorce went smoothly and two years later she was marrying a lawyer from the United Kingdom that she’d met through work and within the year they were having their first child: James Gerard- after her father and the lawyer’s grandfather. It was all very sweet.

When asked how he felt about the divorce he’d said one thing: relieved.

No one had ever forced him into anything he didn’t want to do and hell if he’d have ever let Sharon bully him into having children before he had SHIELD properly organised, but she wouldn’t have backed down either- she was feisty; it’d been part of why he’d fallen head over heels for her from across the yard that morning.

The pressure was gone, his parents were finally off his back, and no one expected much from him in the area of romance now that he’d given it a go. Nick Fury was many things; a soldier, a Director, a friend, and a spy. But a father he was not. So when he came face to face with Clint Barton for the first time on a muggy day in July of ninety-nine, he’d been decidedly clueless.

* * *

Hill grimaced as they stared down at the bundle that a junior agent had found hidden away in one of the lofts. “What is it?”

The sky was overcast; the clouds thick and heavy with un-fallen rain. The raid they'd been planning for months was a bust: the warehouse was empty— abandoned in a hurry. It was a pattern they were beginning to get used to. With the ICC in the works, even the heads of the bigger organisations were spooked— scared of what might happen if they were caught and found themselves under its jurisdiction. Some of them were right to be scared. Most were too stupid to realise it had no jurisdiction over them. But throw around a name like International Criminal Court and the less bright members of the underworld were scrambling. Most torched their files and goods. Entire warehouses set to flame to burn away as many traces as they could.

The particular warehouse they were standing in front of was old and built of sturdy wood that had survived the wars, deindustrialisation, and gentrification. With the rain over the past few days, it would’ve been a bitch to light. So they’d taken everyone and run, leaving the place empty. Well, almost empty.

“Looks to be a baby,” Phil said in that nonchalant way of his, but he was eyeing the bundle that was lying on the hood of a cruiser as though it were going to jump at him like something out of Alien.

“I mean, what _gender_ is it?”

“It’s a boy, Agent Hill,” Fury told her, waving away an offered coffee from a junior agent with nothing better to do now that the op was a bust. Too damn hot for coffee. “Note the blue blanket.”

There’d been a real uproar when an officer had found a baby tucked away in a corner of the abandoned warehouse. Somehow, it had been decided that as Nick was the ranking agent on site, he should be the one to handle it. And so he’d been offered up the child as though he was a tribute. He’d found a lot of weird shit in his career, but a random baby was a new one. Weird glowing otherworldly objects? Sure. That happened often enough. But a baby? Not so much. It was strange in just how mundane it was, which seemed to spook the rank and file more than anything. There was protocol for glowing shit, at least.

The boy suddenly let out a wail, his flush face scrunching up as he squirmed. The kid was cute— Nick wasn’t an expert on babies, but he’d seen some damn ugly ones in his time. This one wasn’t half bad looking. Fluffy light blonde hair, still downy soft, with a round face and button nose, and blue eyes that he seemed to enjoy blinking up at them when he wasn’t fussing.

An arm managed to break free from where it'd been encased in the ratty blue blanket that had seen better days, tiny fingers disappearing into the baby's mouth as he started to suck on them. It only took a minute for the kid to realise that his fingers weren't doing anything to fill his empty stomach, and he let out another wail, Phil and Maria backing away like they were staring down live ordinance.

Later, Nick wouldn't quite be able to explain it— to himself or to anyone, actually. Maybe it was some long buried parental instinct; maybe it was just simple human decency in the face of distress. Most likely, it was heatstroke.

He picked the baby up.

The crying cut off abruptly; maybe the kid was just as shocked as he was. The baby blinked at him for a moment and Nick realised that he’d probably wanted to be held more than anything. He clutched the baby closer, a ball of heat now pressed into his shoulder and neck on an already sweltering day. The baby snuffled into the crook of his neck and settled there, content despite everything.

Nick pulled off the ratty blanket that was probably stifling and tossed it back onto the cruiser. The baby’s heartbeat was quick but steady when he laid a hand on its back. He winced at the bite of nails cutting into his skin, gently prying small hands away from his neck. Nick couldn't help but stare at the set of five perfectly formed, yet impossibly tiny, fingernails.

Rain was beginning to finally fall, thunder rolling off in the distance. Agents were running every which way, attempting to cover up any sensitive equipment, while others were staring up at the purple clouds, thankful for a break in the humidity.

“Sir,” Hill started, looking worried as she pulled up her hood, eyes trained on the baby. “Are you sure that’s wise? What if he gets attached?”

“He’s a not bird,” Phil said, rolling his eyes. “Human children don’t imprint.”

Nick tuned them out as he tucked his windbreaker around the kid, wondering aloud where the fuck he’d come from.

“This _was_ a supposed trafficking ring,” Phil pointed out. “It’s not out of the ordinary for people to sell their children to square their debts. When they got the tip off we were coming, they must’ve left him. Too hard to travel with a child, especially one this young.”

“Easier to leave him to die,” Nick nodded, sighing tiredly. Such was the nature of man.“Contact Missing Persons, see if there are some parents out there going crazy trying to find their son. Might be this little guy has a home to go back to.”

Phil and Maria shared a doubtful glance before Phil shrugged, pulling his radio off his belt.“Will do.”

It only took about twenty minutes to get the information and by the time Phil returned, Nick was sitting in the back of a truck with the baby still held close. Every time he thought the kid had finally dozed off, he squirmed slightly or decided to dig his _really fucking sharp_ nails into somewhere sensitive.</p>

“There aren’t too many missing babies that fit his description,” Phil said as he handed over a page off the mobile fax. “Which is good for us—and for my faith in humanity—so they found a possible match pretty quick.”

Nick took the paper in his free hand.

Clinton Francis Barton, a little over a month old, abducted by fourteen year old Charles Bernard Barton from Holy Queen Orphanage, Iowa, two weeks ago. Parents, deceased.

“You’ve sure had a hard go of it, haven’t you?” Nick sighed as he tossed the paper into the truck bed behind him.

Clinton— Clint, he amended silently; the kid looked like a Clint— squirmed in his hold, head still unable to support itself as he blinked up at Nick curiously before his nose wrinkled and he let out a sneeze.

“So, should I call CPS to come retrieve him?”

* * *

Nick stared down at the baby buckled into the carrier that was set on his office desk, looking content in a plain onesie and wearing what had to be the smallest hat in existence. He seemed content enough to suck on the soother that'd been popped into his mouth, his blue eyes flicking about the room, never focusing on one thing for too long before settling back on the man sitting in front of him.

Nick glanced down at the paperwork clutched in his hand, eyes catching on the 'NAME OF CHILD' section. Clinton Francis Fury was scrawled there in his own loose script, flowing and relaxed as it always was, despite the fact that he'd been anything but as he'd gone about settling on a name.

Clint Fury had a nice ring to it if you asked him— sounded like a good old-fashioned gunslinger.

Maybe a little forceful for someone so small, but the kid would grow into it. One day, it would be a commanding name. The kind that people stood up a little straighter upon hearing. The Francis, Nick could do without, but according to the state records it was a family name— for Clint's paternal grandfather— and everyone needed to know where they were from, to carry some of their history with them. Clint had been robbed of most of his history, save for the blue eyes and blond hair he'd apparently gotten from his mother and a name from his long dead grandfather. No parents, no brother, to tell him where he came from; just his colouring and a name.

Best to let him keep it.

Clint let out a small squawk, his face turning into a grimace, his soother having slipped from his mouth and tumbled down between his leg and the side of the carrier. Nick grabbed it and pressed it back between pink lips, the baby making a contented noise as he settled back down, eyes slipping closed.

Nick watched him for a moment, taking in the rosy cheeks and tiny nose and perfect little fingers that curled and uncurled, then he took a pen from his drawer and in a swipe of black ink filled in the final section he'd been working on.

  



	2. Age: 2 months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a rule of thumb, Clint was a pretty chill kid, and only really cried when he needed some basic need attended to: like his diaper or his blatant need to torture Nick in the middle of the night to sate his innate desire for chaos.

Military service was about sleeping light whenever and wherever you could, and being a spy meant always having an eye and an ear open for trouble. Neither were recipes for a good night's sleep. But dear _God_ , Nick thought as another burst of crying broke over the baby monitor. Less than two weeks into single parenthood and he was beginning to understand why people generally preferred to do it in pairs. At least you had backup. Could set up shifts.

It felt as though every time he'd just managed to fall asleep, Clint was awake and crying. Maybe he was hungry, maybe his diaper needed changing, or maybe, as Nick was quickly coming to suspect, he was crying for the sake of crying because babies were little assholes.

"You are _killing_ me," he grumbled as he stumbled his way to Clint's room, the crying growing steadily louder until his ears were practically ringing. When he opened the door the room was just as he'd left it— the soft blue walls, the cracked window to urge in a whisper of a breeze, and the nightlight playing stars across the ceiling.

The only difference was that instead of a calm, quiet child, there was a shrieking banshee where his son had once lain. He reached in and gathered the boy up, gently bouncing him— which did nothing to stop the grating noise that was now directly beside his ear.

"For Christ's sake," he groaned as he adjusted his hold until Clint's head was pressed against his neck, wincing as sharp little nails caught onto the sensitive skin around his collarbone.

"No one warned me babies are dicks," Nick grumbled, trying to keep his tone light. "You're just a tiny little punk, huh? Making my life miserable."

Clint snuffled, letting out a small mewl of a sound before he settled down almost instantly, apparently soothed.

"Ready for bed?" Nick asked, continuing his bouncing, rocking circuit of the room. "Time for little punks to let their dads sleep."

Clint heaved a great sigh that shook his entire body, seeming to deflate as he became a deadweight in his arms, dropping off like a switch had been flipped.

Nick glanced at the clock mounted on the wall— 4 AM. No point in trying to go back to bed if he had to be at work for six. He carried Clint with him down the hall to his office, hoping to get some paperwork done. He lowered them into his office chair, reclining back into the soft leather with a sigh.

Clint stirred, rubbing his face into Nick's sleep shirt, smearing god knew what on it, but Nick only hummed in response, rubbing his hand in gentle circles along the baby's back.

The paperwork was waiting, but there was something about the weight of Clint on his chest, the smell of his hair and skin, the light of passing car's headlights filtering in through the blinds, that had Nick's eyes slipping shut.

* * *

Another new thing was that mornings were no longer Nick's friends. Once upon a time, he'd been a morning person. He used to get up with the sun, go for a brisk jog, and be back in his kitchen having his first cup of coffee before most people had managed to roll out of bed.

That time seemed far off, now, and that version of him was gone. Dead. Cremated, placed in a tasteful urn, and kept on a mantle somewhere.

Mornings were officially The Worst, he thought, as he tried to stay awake enough not to kill them both. He was downing the second Starbucks coffee he'd bought that morning, the empty cup of his first discarded in the passenger seat cup holder, and the caffeine was doing _something_ if his rattling heart and shaking hands were anything to go by, but the heaviness of his eyes said it wasn't doing enough.

Every time they stopped in New York's bumper to bumper stop and go morning bullshit, he had to pinch himself to stop from letting his eyes slide shut. Clint was passed out in the back, his soother hanging out of his open mouth and his little feet kicking occasionally— dreaming of something. What did babies even dream of?

There was a blaring beep behind him and Nick realised he could move up at least a couple feet— for all the difference it made. He flipped off the driver behind him as he rolled down the window, hoping the air would help snap him awake a bit. The sounds of traffic and pedestrians that had been muffled by the reinforced glass flooded into the cabin and Nick worried for a moment that Clint would wake. A glance in the rear view told him Clint was just fine and sleeping peacefully— the lucky little bastard.

The parental leave he'd turned down was looking more and more appealing. At least then he could sleep when Clint did. The rest of the drive into HQ was a blank, although he somewhat recalled flipping the bird again at a middle-aged lady who'd cut him off and he may or may not have almost hit a cyclist. Classic commuting shit. They were alive and the car was unscratched and that was what mattered.

He didn’t even notice that Phil was just holding the elevator from the parking garage to the building above for them until he practically stumbled into him.

"Good morning, sir."

He sounded rather smug, to Nick’s ears. But sleep deprivation had always made him a paranoid fuck. Or a more paranoid fuck. Semantics.

Phil gave him a once over, probably taking in the bags under his eyes and the still sleeping baby that hadn't stirred even as Nick was extracting him from the back of his SUV.

"You're uh, looking a little rough there."

Phil had once had his hands in Nick's literal intestines, trying to hold him together after a dicey run in with a North Korean assassin and he'd never once commented that he looked _rough_. What did this say about their lives? Also how terrible did he look? 

Phil promptly handed over his coffee, another bad sign, which led to Nick noticing that his own was nowhere to be seen. Thinking about it, he may have tossed it at the cyclist he’d almost clipped. Who the hell even cycled in New York City rush hour traffic? The stupid fuck deserved what he got.

He took the proffered coffee that he knew was from a small up and coming café that Phil had raved about— because Phil was the kind of person to frequent establishments that played folk music and had dim lighting and baristas that wore thin scarves in his personal time, but would choke down the office motor oil without a wince during work hours.

He shotgunned it, choking for a moment on the sickly sweet hazelnut flavouring that hit the back of his throat. Desperate times. 

"Did you get _any_ sleep?"

"Some," he said as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out, hoping to get to his office with as little of a production as possible. “And I’ve got some new ideas on enhanced interrogation methods. Just have R&D bring a recording rig to my place tonight.”

He'd been bringing Clint in since the adoption, but the novelty still hadn't worn off. Babies were apparently an endless spectacle. Sure enough a small swarm of agents filed into his office after him, some carrying files that needed his attention, but most empty-handed. 

He set Clint, carrier and all, down on the couch that occupied the wall across from the floor to ceiling windows. After years working out of basements, tents, and for a brief period but notable period, a literal tree house; he’d accepted the perks that came with being the Director of SHIELD with great relish. Sure, the windows made it cold in winter and hot in summer— clandestine or no, this was a government operation after all, and proper insulation was firmly a Private Sector thing— but damn if the view wasn’t impressive.

Clint was just beginning to wake, blinking sleepily up at him and squirming in his seat, so Nick carefully undid the buckles and pulled his son from the carrier, clutching him to his chest for a moment.

Clint snuggled down for a moment, mewling as he stretched out his arms and legs, his head toddling slightly against Nick's hand as he struggled to take in the room. Nick righted the soother that was barely holding on before setting him down in the baby swing he'd had set up next to the couch and proven to be a god send. The agent who’d recommended it had swiftly received an IOU for them to cash in at any time.

Clint wasn't happy to be set down, but the moment Nick flipped the power on and gave the swing a nudge, he quieted. A fucking miracle.

When Nick retreated to his desk, the horde swooped in, elbowing Phil aside without a backwards glance or sense of preservation, and his son vanished into their midst. When he wasn't waking up in the night and screaming bloody murder, Clint was calm, Nick observed. Even with agents crowded around him, cooing, poking, and prodding, Clint continued to suck on his soother, blinking up at them from the swing with an unimpressed look on his face that reminded him of Phil. 

As a rule of thumb, Clint only really cried when he needed some basic need attended to: like his diaper or his blatant need to torture Nick in the middle of the night to sate his innate desire for chaos. Otherwise, if kept in his swing in a well-lit area, he was chill to be left to his own devices.

"Alright, leave me son the fuck alone and get back to work," he called to the group as he took his seat. "I don't pay you to dick around."

The horde reluctantly dispersed until Clint reappeared, still unimpressed, his hair perhaps a little ruffled from where someone had run their fingers through it.

"You having a good time?"

Clint stared back at him, uncomprehending. Nick crossed his eyes, sending a beatific smile across his face, the soother tumbling from his mouth.

"You like that, huh? You like your dad looking like a fool?"

He made another face and got the same response, Clint's cheeks flushing red.

"I think we all enjoy you looking like a fool," Phil piped up as he strode back through the door, folder under his arm and showing no signs that he'd almost been lost in the stampede. Nick flipped him off, professionalism be damned.

"Those the potential candidates?"

Phil nodded as he handed over the folder. "I think some of them are promising. Hopefully we can have someone pinned down within the hour."

* * *

Phil realised as he watched Nick slam his office phone down for the fifth time in a row that he had, perhaps, been overly optimistic.

Nick cursed to himself as he went about tearing up the resume in his hands with extreme prejudice before tossing it into the recycling bin to lay with all of the other identical scraps. 

“The girl was a moron.”

“She was also thirteen,” Phil sighed as he scratched another name off his list from where he was sitting on the couch, Clint swaddled in his carrier by his feet. “If you want better candidates you’re going to need to stop letting kids apply and go through an au pair or nanny agency.”

He didn’t bother to point out that this was in no way within the parameters of his job description. That wouldn’t end well. The last time he'd voiced a similar complaint his job description had been rewritten to include 'herding feral cats' just to spite him and also to prove that Nick Fury could, and would, make your life miserable if he felt like it and that HR would turn a blind eye every time so you might as well shut up and put up. But still, Phil thought it hard and hoped that somehow Nick would sense it anyway. There were enough rumours floating around that the Director was omnipotent that it seemed worth a shot.

“There’s no way on God’s green earth that I will ever hire an _au pair_ for my kid.”

“They're all the rage in Europe."

“Yeah, well,” Nick huffed, pulling out the next resume from the folder. “This is the United States. I want a babysitter. Not an au pair and not a damn nanny— we aren’t the Kennedys.”

“It’s just a fancy name for a sitter," Phil pointed out, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Typically," he muttered, crossing his legs, "One who’s not in grade eight.”

“I need someone with basic arms and first aid training," Nick grumbled as he flipped through some resumes. "Preferably with a military background. Some commendations would be appreciated. Specialising in protection and evasion...”

“Yeah, well," Phil said, cutting off him off. "The Terminator isn’t available. And I doubt most vets are up for watching a baby day in and out. Unless you want to poach some of the Secret Service—

Nick shot him a look of utter disgust.

"You might as well just hand him off to one of the senior agents when you’re busy and keep him with you otherwise.”

The look of disgust vanished and was replaced with contemplation. Oh no.

“Nick.”

“No, no. I think you’re on to something there, Cheese.”

“I’m not- I’m really not onto anything. How would that even work, sir?” He asked, trying to be a voice of reason. “Set up a play mat and tell everyone to ignore the baby in the corner?”

“Why the hell not? Being Director's gotta' be good for something."

"It _is_ good for something. A semi-insulated corner office. A good wage. A solid benefits package and pension. Performance pay! Changing the world! Saving people. Not making every day Bring Your Kid to Work Day! We have dangerous criminals coming in and out of this building at all times—

"Yes, escorted by highly trained agents. All of whom are paid to protect me—

“That’s really a tangential job requirement, as your subordinates, not an operational—

“And by extension, my son—

"Sir, we both know that's not—

"When I'm unavailable and you and Hill are otherwise occupied, there needs to be a personally vetted agent that I trust implicitly with Clint's safety. Have a list drawn up of potential people and hand me my son."

Phil heaved a sigh as he extracted Clint from his carrier and brought him over.

"You've done a lot of crazy shit, but this might just be the craziest. Look at this child,” he said, holding Clint out. “His skull isn’t even properly fused together and you want to bring him into our highly dangerous workplace occupied by highly dangerous people- criminal or otherwise? It’s _insane_.”

"Yeah, well," Nick said, gently taking his son into his own arms. "No one’s ever called me sane and it’s got me this far.”

Phil was nothing if not efficient— even the firm belief that Nick's plan was stupid as hell couldn't him from doing his job punctually. So within the hour, he'd handed over a list with all of five names on it out of the hundreds of SHIELD agents stationed in New York City.

"This is it?" Nick asked, incredulous.

"I filtered out those who are frequently deployed, anyone with a history of aggression or substance abuse, anyone with a flagged record, and anyone I just don't like."

Phil didn’t like many people.

It was an easy enough task to whittle them down to a single candidate from there. Agent Wayne Galloway was a bear of a man that stood tall enough to have to duck in doorways and was often seen with a bruise on his forehead from walking into light fixtures. He was built like a football coach’s wet dream, but completely lived up to the ‘gentle giant’ moniker. Former marine, agent for fifteen years, father of two boys, officially retired from fieldwork due to a torn ACL that hadn't healed right, and by all accounts an all around Decent Guy.

"He donates to the _Wildlife_ Fund," Phil noted, as if a love of endangered species made all the difference. But maybe it did?

"I'll get him in here," Phil said, taking Nick's contemplative silence as agreement. By the time they were able to pull Galloway from a meeting, Clint, who'd dozed off at some point, was beginning to wake in his seat, fingers curling and uncurling as he stretched and squirmed under the blanket that'd been carefully tucked around him.

"You asked to see me, sir?" Nick waved him in, Phil perched on the edge of the desk looking smug. It took only a moment for the giant man to set his eyes upon Clint, a smile breaking across his face.

"And who do we have here?" Galloway cooed, going to kneel in front of the couch that Clint's seat was set on. Clint blinked up at him, nose scrunched up with his mouth set in a pout.

“Pick him up,” Nick ordered, not moving from his spot.

Galloway eyed him for a moment before doing so. Thus far, the only agents who had been given explicit permission to hold Clint were Maria Hill and Phil Coulson. In fact, no other living being had held Clint since he’d come into Nick’s guardianship. While some of the agents had been bold enough to touch, none had yet been dumb enough to try and hold Clint before getting permission. Civilians, particularly of the older set, didn't share the same healthy fear, although Nick was working on that, one old lady at a time.

Galloway stood there awkwardly as they watched him hold Clint.

"I…I, uh, heard about this little guy all the way down on the third floor. You've got a real cutie on your hands, sir."

Nick hummed in agreement but continued to watch like a hawk as Galloway expertly tucked Clint into the crook of his arm. Clint began to fuss, but Galloway was quick to sooth him with a couple bounces. He held the baby with a practiced ease, his posture relaxed, his hold loose but unfaltering. It was how Nick himself had come to hold his son, born of experience and a slow learned trust in his ability to care for Clint. This was a man used to holding babies— a man who knew what it was to have and hold a son, not only in his arms, but in his heart. This was a father.

Nick was under no illusions that he would be the type of father that inspired those saccharine Father's Day cards with script font messages about how he was 'always there' and 'an inspiration'. No, he was going to be the father who couldn't be pulled away from work on parent-teacher conference night. He was going to be the father that missed every other baseball game, and a birthday or two. He was going to be the father that had to put work first, because work meant protecting the world from threats most people didn't even know existed.

But, he'd also be the father that wanted the best for his son, that loved Clint down from the top of his head to the ends of his toes, that would never not regret missing a single moment of his son's life.

Nick watched as Galloway cooed and bounced with Clint in his arms. Phil looked over at him, giving an impressed nod in Galloway's direction.

"The Director finds himself in need of an agent to take on Clint's care when he, myself, or Agent Hill are otherwise occupied. Only during work-hours, of course. Although that can be discussed later," Phil said.

"Oh. OH. Uh, yeah— I mean, yes, sir," Galloway stammered, never stopping his gentle bouncing. "Kids are great. I love kids— although I guess you already figured that out or I wouldn't be here."

"Good," Phil said, clean cut and down to business as he collected the discarded profiles and swept them into the recycle bin to be shredded later. "I'll set up a meeting with your supervisor and we'll hash out the details."

"Thank you, sir. And, of course, you, Director. Thank you for the opportunity. I promise you," he said, voice grave, "I'll take care of him like I do my boys."

"I'd expect nothing less," Nick said, voice hard. “And if you ever prove to me you’re not up to this task, I assure you, that best case scenario you’ll find yourself shuffled, and stationed somewhere _very_ unpleasant.”

He let the man consider his words for a moment before saying, “Now, give me my son and get back to work. We'll set the meeting for Monday."

Galloway gently deposited Clint into his waiting arms and Nick couldn't help the way he clutched him close, possessive, as he tried to beat down the odd sense of longing that had taken root in him.

Clint stared up at him, eyes ever sharp, before breaking out into that beatific smile that Nick couldn't help but return. He'd miss a lot of things, he knew, but that just meant he'd have to make every moment count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if there's any specific things you'd like to read or maybe just to let me know I'm not yelling into a void. Either works and both would be appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love and are always appreciated by perpetually tired and morose people such as myself. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy.


End file.
